"Security teams to the gateroom," Sheppard said into his radio. "Sound a citywide alarm." Salawi's hands moved uncertainly over her keyboard, but it was only seconds before the alarm sounded. "Put me on citywide," Sheppard said, and waited for Salawi's quick nod before he went on. "This is Colonel Sheppard. Assume that as of now we are facing an attack by unknown hostiles who are trying to get through the Stargate. I want security teams on full alert--"

Zelenka breathed a curse in Czech, all the more alarming because his tone was hushed rather than heated. "The iris is shutting down," he said. "I am trying, but--"

"God damn it," Sheppard said, heading back down the rear stairs and drawing his pistol in one motion. Lorne was already moving in the same direction. Rear stairs instead of main ones, because they weren't in body armor, and that sweeping marble staircase gave anyone coming through the Stargate a lovely clear shot--

He could hear the electric crackle of the iris collapsing, see the Stargate rippling blue and unobstructed as he came down the stairs. Below in the gate room, two Marine teams were already in position, leveling weapons on the Stargate. One of the Marines handed a P90 up to Sheppard, who holstered his pistol and cradled the rifle without taking his eyes off the gate.

Ok -- this is a piece I haven't posted and I don't think either of the others have either, though I'm not 100% sure...

Bonewhite shrugged. *The clevermen are loyal to Steelflower, to a man. Ember’s influence is strong there, and he — doesn’t love her. Not after their first meeting.*

Guide nodded, remembering the ritual submission, Ember’s face thinning as the queen fed, claiming his hive as her own. He had thought they were beyond such things, did not need to revert to the ways of their ancestors….

*The blades, however…* Bonewhite showed teeth. *There have been quarrels in commons and in the game rooms, though for now the majority holds for Steelflower.* He paused, gauging his moment. *We can’t keep up the pretense much longer.*

*I know,* Guide said. *But the alternative is no better.*

*We could agree that she was missing long enough that we could assume her dead,* Bonewhite said, but his tone was less confident than the words.

Thank you. I have more than enough there to satisfy curiosity on several levels until I get to read the book in its entirety. There's mention of Ember, and Steelflower, as well as Guide. I'm thinking that the unexpected visitor to Atlantis might be wearing leather, btw. :P

Ok -- the Old One for you! This is a twofer, so you have to share it with Draco Stellaris and the rest of the WDC! This one's for the WDC.

He felt someone’s gaze on him, looked up to see the Old One watching from his seat beside the inner door. He seemed to be one of Death’s particular favorites, though Guide doubted he shared her bed, and he dipped his head in polite acknowledgement.

*Come and sit by me,* the Old One said, and Guide moved reluctantly to join him. He would have preferred to keep his distance — he had not gotten the measure of the Old One’s strength of mind — but he did not wish to make an enemy of him. Instead, he gathered the skirts of his coat and sat, a careful hand’s-breadth away.

*You’re no young blade,* the Old One said, after a while.

*I am not,* Guide agreed, and the Old One made a sound of creaking laughter.

*And you are thinking I am older still, and you would be right. But I have a reason for asking.*

Guide waited, and the Old One sighed, resting his head against the chamber wall. He was very old indeed, Guide thought, vigorous enough, but so old that he had not been bred to any of the familiar types. Even young, his face had not been as strongly modeled as most blades; it had an archaic look, like the foremost mothers of Snow’s hive.

Ok! In which Lorne and Cadman discuss Carson. Or Carson's clone. Or something.

“We’ve all gotten used to treating him like he’s Dr. Beckett, only with about six months he can’t remember,” Lorne said. “It’s just easier than worrying all the time about what the whole clone thing really means.”

“That being the six months between when he was cloned and when he died.” Cadman shook her head. “I mean, General O’Neill was cloned once, and now there’s him and his clone, so his clone can’t really be him, right?”

“Maybe it would be easier to just think of it as if this were Dr. Beckett from an alternate universe.”

Cadman looked at him, her head to one side. “I am going to pretend you didn’t just say that like that would be more normal.”

“I prefer as close to a sure thing as I can get.” Eva took a sip of her tea, her eyes traveling to something over William’s shoulder. “Oh, hello, Dr. Zelenka.”

“You are not in the right place for sure things,” Radek said. He had a sandwich on his plate, as well as a large mug of coffee.

“So I’m beginning to see,” Eva said.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Radek asked, and Eva shook her head. William copied her, though he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t mind. He had been avoiding Zelenka since he arrived on Atlantis, though he’d hoped it hadn’t been obvious. Apparently, though, he’d been less subtle than he’d thought, and he gave the other man what he hoped was a conciliatory smile.

“It’s been a while.”

“Since Cambridge, yes,” Radek answered, with a show of teeth that wasn’t entirely a smile.

They'd lost their usual lunch table to the weather, but John and Teyla were already camped out at a table inside when Ronon got through the mess hall line. They were sitting very close together, as if they intended to defend the table against possible attack. Teyla looked up as he approached and smiled. John didn't exactly smile, but he relaxed a little and nudged a chair toward Ronon with his foot.

"Are we expecting to get shot at over lunch?" Ronon said, sitting down and spearing a bite of meat on his fork.

"Maybe," John said with his mouth full of sandwich.

"No," Teyla said. "We are expecting to be shot at eventually."

"So what else is new?" Ronon said.

John snorted. "Not so much." He stood up, glancing down at Teyla with what looked very close to a smile, and picked up his tray. "See you when you get back."

He couldn’t have said quite what he was looking for, if he was even looking for anything, and not just trying to distract himself. The factory smelled old and dry, not even dead, and he needed air and light.

He ducked through the doorway that Vin had indicated, and started up the stairs, body tensed just in case the next step was the one that wouldn’t take his weight. He could see the paler wood of the repairs, and it wasn’t that he didn’t believe Vin when he said it would hold — well, his mind believed, but his body did not. The occasional crack and groan didn’t improve matters.

Then at last he came out onto the roof, and stood for a moment, staring. Most of the biggest buildings were still there, their shells intact, roofless, broken, but recognizable. Somehow that seemed worse than if they had been missing altogether, and he shook his head, wishing he had the words. It was like looking at the skeleton of something so long dead that half the bones were missing. The eye filled in the gaps even as it noted them, shapes made as familiar as they were strange. There was the old guildhall, converted before he was born to a commercial exchange: the long windows were empty, carved frames broken out, but the line of the roof was intact. The Panopticon’s roof had fallen in, but its narrow towers still flanked the gap, scorched and blackened against the pale sky. In the far distance, sunlight glinted from the dome of the City Museum. Somehow most of the gilding had survived, and it had not been worth anyone’s while to pull it down for salvage. Or at least, not worth it yet. Cai was bound to get there, in the end.

Beyond that was the gap that had been Centenary Park, once dark with trees, now bleak and empty, a few twisted stumps thrusting out of the rubble. He and Melena had never gone there much, preferred the livelier amusement of Gateside, where there were band concerts three nights a week, and you could buy cakes and tea from a dozen vendors, and bring a flask of your own if you were reasonably discreet….

Quicksilver did not know how long he had lain in his nest, wrapped in sorrow and the aching loss, the absence that left his mind empty. Long enough for the hive to be underway again, long enough for strangers to come, and go again when he would not respond, long enough that he felt empty, as dry as the touch of his brother’s mind. He should move, he knew, rise and be about his work, but that was lost to him, too, and so he waited, too drained to do more than wait for what would come next.

*Quicksilver?*

The voice in his mind was banked fire, a coal still warm at the core; not a man he knew, and Quicksilver rolled over, untangling himself from the quilts that filled his nest. It should have been Dust, standing there, and the sorrow broke over him like a wave, so that he ducked his head, covering his face with his off hand until he had mastered himself.

*I honor your grief,* Ember said, and there was compassion in his mind.

I didn't have particular looks for his tattoos, except that I don't think he has a facial one? Or he does it's not large. It's not prominent like Guide's star or Bronze's twining vines. His jacked is quilted, a linked pattern like honeycombs or cells. I think Sciences Biological is usually designated by the cell pattern, but it's so stylized that it just looks like quilting unless you're looking for it. Does that make sense? (And I'd love it if you'd link me to the portrait when you're done!)

“Radek,” Teyla said again. “This is Teyla. The Genii are here in the city, and may be coming your way.” She paused, waiting for an answer, some acknowledgement, and none came.

Ronon signaled, and she moved to join him, crouching low.

“I’m guessing maybe six, ten men all told —” he began, and she lifted her hand.

“I am not getting a response from Radek.”

“Damn it,” Ronon muttered. He looked at the Museum, then back at the camp.

“We should go back,” Teyla said.

“Yeah.” Ronon didn’t move, and in the same moment, the tent flap was flung aside, and a slender red-haired woman stepped out into the sunlight. Her uniform jacket was open to the waist in the warm air, showing a pale undershirt. “Is that —?”

“Yes,” Teyla said. “Sora Tyrus.” She touched her radio again. “Radek. Respond, please.” Ronon looked at her, and she shook her head. “Nothing.”